


Angels in Disguise

by Saki_Lyn



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Art, Bookstores, Canon Related, Churches & Cathedrals, F/M, France (Country), One Shot, Originally Posted on deviantART, POV Second Person, Paris (City), Reader-Insert, Relationship(s), Sketchbook, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4494714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki_Lyn/pseuds/Saki_Lyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you find yourself in Paris, sketchbook in hand, anything can happen. The City of Eternal Light grants each of its visitors their own personal treasure, and yours comes in the form of an unexpected stranger, a man with storm cloud flavored hair and amaranth eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels in Disguise

            Angels in Disguise

 

            _Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise._

 

-Shakespeare & Co. motto

 

“C’mon, ya slug bug! Hurry up!”

            Sage tosses a pair of irked eyes over her shoulder. You’d stoop to retrieve them, but she’d probably only yell at you for wasting time.

            “Honestly, I don’t understand how you manage it, walking so slow.”

            In response, you shrug.

            She huffs and picks up her own pace.

            You watch her flouncing back as it dances farther and farther ahead of you. You pause to wonder how the two of you keep up this friendship. It certainly isn’t easy, at least not on your part.

            But that matters little right now. What matters is the buttery soft sunlight adding highlights to the air, the cream coated buildings lining every block, and the people. Oh, the people. Every one of them, every single pedestrian, deserves a spot in _Vogue._

            Except you, of course.

            You glance down at your humble threads. A pair of well-loved converse, mismatching polka dot socks, faded jean shorts, and an MCR t-shirt. Oh, and your signature hoodie: black, with three quarter sleeves and a set of painted angel wings. And absolutely _riddled_ with safety pins. No, you may not belong in _Vogue,_ but you probably love your clothes more than anyone else in this city.

            Paris, that is.

            Sage’s folks are considerably well-to-do. This summer, they decided to treat her and a friend with a tour of Europe. Being Sage’s only close friend, this meant they had to put up with you and your… _unique_ brand of style. For their daughter’s sake.

            “Gods, you’re _miles_ behind!” Sage hollers, shattering your thoughts.

            “I’m coming, I’m coming,” you respond, making no effort to increase your speed. “Where are we supposed to meet up with your folks anyway?”

            Her foot taps and her lips purse. She straightens her Burberry blazer as she says, “Some ratty old bookshop called Shakespeare & Co. It’s somewhere on rue de la Bûcherie, wherever _that_ is.”

            “Here, give me the map,” you say, taking the paper and spreading it over the cover of your sketchbook.  For a few seconds, your eyes skip and skim. You look up at your friend and smile. “It’s just around the corner, sillyhead. We’re almost there.”

            Sage swipes the map back with snakebite speed. “Well, if you’re so smart, why don’t you walk faster and _lead_ me.”

            Your mind burbles with mental chuckles at your friend’s childishness, but nevertheless, you do as she asks. Perhaps this is how the two of you work: she the constant boss and nag, and you the perpetually patient follower. But you must admit, being friends with Sage Bonne has its perks. How _else_ could you have come to Paris?

            The two of you round the corner of Quai de Montebello and Rue Lagrange. You walk a short way until you reach a secluded little street. It seems bashful, it’s hiding so slyly. Rue de la Bûcherie is short and spindly, paved with cobblestones and almost too snug for a car to fit through. On the left, a fairy-sized park dapples the surrounding concrete with life and flowers. On the right, a cheery restaurant glows, beckoning to your hunger, but you can’t stop. You’re on a mission.

            “ _’Just around the corner,’_ ” Sage mimics with a whine.

            You ignore her. “Come on; it’s right up here.”

            She groans, and you think to yourself: _Wasn’t she just complaining about me being too slow a minute ago?_

            Dragging Sage by her coat sleeves and continuing along Rue de la Bûcherie, eventually you spot the bugger.

            Shakespeare & Co.

            The little green storefront nestles beside yet another Parisian restaurant. It’s a modest thing, a simple collection of windows lorded over by a single door, but one peek and you can already tell this place is brimming with hidden secrets. Above the windows and doors, its title is announced in elegant black letters nailed to a gold backing. A portrait of Shakespeare himself adds a note of charm. History was etched here, he seems to say.

            “Whoa, look at all those books…” you breathe, stepping up to the bookshelf  outside the shop. It seems an odd place for a bookshelf, but that is what gives it appeal.

            Sage says nothing, preferring to follow behind in sullen silence.

            At only ten thirty in the morning, you’re surprised by the number of patrons present. And at a bookshop, no less. In the outside world, books are being driven to extinction, but apparently Paris has yet to receive the memo. A couple pours over a vintage copy of _The Great Gatsby._ An elderly man leans thoughtfully against a wall, hands clutching a book of poems by Emily Dickinson. Many more are milling, but your eyes can’t focus on all of them.

            “I want to go inside,” you announce, tightening your grip on your sketchbook and heading for the door.

            “Wait!” Sage snaps, grabbing your hood. “We need to wait for Mom and Dad outside. They’d _never_ find us in all that mess.” Her eyes point to the shop’s interior.

            But for once, you aren’t in the mood for concession.

            You open the door.

            “ _Waaait!”_ Sage wails, drawing several perturbed glares.

            You don’t listen, and slip in through the door, letting it clatter shut behind you and your leech. Sage won’t let go of your hoodie.  Like a shell attached to a snail. Together you trump through the labyrinthine stacks of books and lumbering shelves. Titles are arranged every imaginable way, plus a few more.  The walkways are so narrow - you inadvertently cause a miniature avalanche when your sketchbook knocks against a stack. A perusing lady pinches her face at your muttered apology.

            “How do you go about buying a book in here anyway?” Sage asks, scowling at the paper mayhem.

            “You just pick something up,” you reply with a faint grin. “Turn the pages, read a bit. If you like what you read, you buy it to read more.”

            “Sounds like a perfect waste of money to me.”

            Your grin cracks. “Well, you don’t have to stay here.”

            The tone makes her look at you. “What?”

            “I said: you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”

            Her scowl burns itself into her countenance. “Fine, then! Maybe I _don’t_ want to stay here with you!”

            Once again you are treated to the picture of your friend’s backside, flouncing pompously away. She seems to have completely forgotten that this is a meeting point, and she really doesn’t have a choice in whether to stay or not.

            You sigh.

            Oh well. At least it’s quieter. Maybe now some of these poor blokes will get a chance to read.

            As for you, you want to investigate. You didn’t get very far with Sage sagging on you like a tumor. You come to a slight step in the floor. ‘Live for Humanity,’ it instructs you.

            “Hmm… curiouser and curiouser,” you giggle.

            Gradually, you make your way to the back of the shop, gingerly edging around lingering readers as you do. You are especially careful not to let your sketchbook demolish any more paper mountains. Eventually you reach the end of the end. The farthest reaches of Shakespeare & Co. A small twisted staircase calls for you to climb it, and you dare not disobey.

            The second floor of the bookshop offers just as little space as the first, but that troubles you not. Claustrophobia has never dealt you grief. In fact, you _welcome_ tight spaces. They make you feel cozy and warm.

            Nosing around for a bit uncovers a lonely little corner made of book stacks and pillows. The perfect place to set up shop. Shoving aside some of the pillows and adjusting the stacks into more optimal positions, you settle in, kicking off your converse and flipping open your sketchbook. You draw forth your pencil from its scabbard in your hair and begin to wait.

 

 

            You spend what seems like hours in there, drawing whatever crosses your path. Literature enthusiasts, mostly. What other sort of people spends their lunch hour at an old bookshop? Other than misfit artists like yourself, that is. You are beginning to wonder if Sage and her parents forgot about you. Or perhaps your friend is in such a rage that she convinced her parents to leave you here…hm. That would be a problem.

            Time to leave.

            You start to rise, gathering up your assorted drawing paraphernalia, when you notice something. Or some _one,_ rather. You sink back down to take a better look.

            He’s standing over by a section of history books. A youngish man, with hair the flavor of storm clouds and pale skin. Almost albino, but his eyes are wrong. They’re heavily unexpected – the color of amaranths. His expression is one of intense concentration. He’s so tall he has to stoop to read the book in his hands.

            You revive your retired sketchbook and once again reach for your pencil. This guy deserves to be drawn.

            Putting pencil to paper, your eyebrows knit as you concentrate. Drawing from life is finicky business, and you want to get this guy right. Perfect, in fact. He must be perfect.

            “He just had to go and have _blonde hair,_ didn’t he?” you mutter to yourself as you work. “Blonde hair is so tricky… you can’t shade too much or else it’ll look brown.”

            The tip of your tongue pokes out the side of your lips.

            “And then there’s the issue of his nose. How the shuck am I supposed to draw that without making it look cantankerous?!”

            He does have an interesting nose. You think he could be Eastern European, especially with his sharp cheekbones and the arches around his eyes. You are good at recognizing different nationalities. After all, you’ve drawn enough faces in your life to know what makes each one unique.

            “There. Just a bit more shading around here, and then…”

            “Excuse me, little one, but are you drawing me?”

            “Aaah!” you cry out, sharply launching your pencil skyward. You’d trained yourself to do this so you wouldn’t accidently scribble over your drawings.

            The young man – who you could’ve _sworn_ was still bent over the history section a second ago – smoothly snatches the pencil from the air. “You dropped this,” he says, handing it back to you. His voice has a rolling accent to it.

            Words clinging to your tongue, you retrieve the utensil in silence. “T-technically, I threw it…” you manage to shake out.

            Suddenly, he crouches down to your level and spreads his lips from ear to ear. It isn’t quite a smile… you don’t know what to call it. “What? No ‘thank you’? And Alfred always brags about how polite American girls are.” He leans in closer, causing a slight discomfort to curl in the back of your head. “Would you at least show me how I look?”

            He reaches for your sketchbook, but you retract it hastily. “I’m n-not very good…”

            His hand presses forward. “I think I still have a right to see it, considering it is a picture of me.” His smile grows impossibly larger. Something about his eyes tells you this man isn’t quite as sane as he ought to be…

            “Well, too bad. It’s my sketchbook.”

            With that, you leap from your nest, shove past that smile, dart down the staircase, and dash out of Shakespeare & Co. like spring from winter’s blizzard, leaving that oddly intriguing creep to wallow in your dust.

            “Sage! Mr. and Mrs. Bonne! Where are you guys?!” you call, flashing a frantic glance in every direction, hoping for a snippet of a familiar face. “Saaaaage! I’m sorry I was rude to you! Just please, come back!!”

            Passing Parisians are not amused. Most of them stray to the far side of the street when they notice the crazy girl flailing her arms like a sail. Some of them even have the courtesy to give you a filthy look.

            You glance over your shoulder at the bookshop. There he is, the sucker, just exiting the little green door.

            Your options are dwindling thin. Making a dime-turn decision, you pivot on your heels and fly down Rue de la Bûcherie, past the row of restaurants, past the fairytale park, and past a strange bicycle that seems to be welded to a fence. You check behind you to mark your stalker’s progress.

            He isn’t going to gain on you anytime soon, that’s for sure. This guy doesn’t seem to be built for running. All strength and size, little speed. You might actually win a race for once.

            Sketchbook under arm, your feet pound the cobblestones. You’re surprised they aren’t of cinnamon consistency yet, with all the footprints they’ve suffered through over the years. When you reach the end of the rue, you turn right, heading back the way you and Sage came. At the end of that street, right again, and you’re back on Quai de la Montebello, the road outlining the Seine River.

            “Maybe if I make it across the Seine, I’ll lose him,” you puff, scanning for a nearby bridge. You locate one and motor over to it, only to discover that it’s writhing with street merchants. The kind that’s illegal in Paris. The kind that needs to pack up their wares in a big flurry whenever the police spot them. The kind that is now making such a gargantuan mess that you can’t get through to the bridge to cross the river. Shuck.

            Biting your lip, you keep chugging your way down Montebello, scrounging for another option. Ahead, you spy one – a second bridge just a few blocks away. You slather on the speed and run as if you carry your life on your back (which you do – like a turtle does its shell).

            You’re making good time, you’re almost there…but then you feel something. More like the whisper of a something really. It prickles the back of your neck and makes you pause, turn slowly… and there he is.

            He pops out of a tributary street like a character from a children’s book. How did he get there so fast?? The last time you saw him he was barely quicker than ivy.

            You try to dance away, but it’s already too late. He’s on your heels.

            “Stop!” he calls.

            Like hell.

            With the dying dregs of your strength, you sprint down the boulevard, dodging pedestrians like slaloms and hoping your pursuer won’t be so nimble.

            But somehow, impossibly, he is.

            In no time at all, he’s at your shoulder, yanking you to a jarring halt. “I told you to stop,” he scolds.

            “Yeah, well. Some people don’t follow the commands of total strangers,” you retort, bucking off his hand.

You bolt away.

            “Stop…” he says again, but with a note of something new. Vulnerability?  It sounds more like a plea than an order. The unease in his voice makes you pause. “I only wanted to see your drawing…”

            You turn to look at him. He isn’t smiling anymore, and for some reason, this paints him more presentably. How peculiar. Most people look _more_ approachable when smiling, not less. Now, he looks almost mournful.

You’re defenseless against Bambi eyes, even the Bambi eyes of a perfect stranger. _Especially_ against the Bambi eyes of perfect stranger with violet irises.

“Alright. Fine. I’ll let you see it…”

You flip open to the page in question and hand it over. He studies it, his expression indiscernible. After several seconds of eternity, he says, “Are my eyes really that… glowy?”

Snatching back the sketchbook, you hold up your drawing next to his face to compare. “Hm, I may have exaggerated them a tad. I tend to do that to the features I like.”

His creeping grin crawls back. “You like my eyes?”

Feeling the heat of your ripening cheeks, you hastily shake your head. “N-no… well yes, but…”

“But?”

“But that doesn’t mean I like _you!_ I don’t even know you, okay? I just saw you in the bookshop and decided to draw you because…”

“Because…?”

“Because I like to draw interesting people! And there’s nothing wrong with that!”

“No, not at all…” His grin becomes a light chuckle.

You scratch muttered curses into the air as you fold up your sketchbook.

“What happened to your friend?” he asks suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You entered the bookstore with a rather annoying little girl. Where did she go?”

“Oh, Sage? I have no idea. I have a sneaking suspicion that she convinced her parents to ditch me here because I said something she didn’t like.”

“Well then… that means you are a foreigner in an unknown city, all alone.”

“Yes... your point?”

That shucking grin makes its appearance yet again. “Something could happen to you, and no one would know until too late…”

You shiver subconsciously, eyeing your newfound companion with trepidation. He’s at least twice your size, if not thrice. If he were to try something…

“…but, not to worry,” he continues, clapping a large hand to your shoulder. “I have been to Paris many times to visit a close friend of mine. I know the city well. I can be your guide.”

He smiles down at you.

You crack a queasy grin back. “S-so, where to first?”

“I was thinking Notre Dame. It is right across the river here.”

He steers you down the remainder of Quai de la Montebello and onto the bridge you were trying to escape him on not moments ago. A few scattered street merchants display their wares proudly on woolen quilts to either side of you. Sunglasses. Accordion fans. Miniature Eiffel Towers. Even a ‘designer’ purse or two.

He catches your wandering eyes. “Would you like something?”

“Oh no. I don’t have any money. I was just looking.”

“I could buy something for you…”

But you shake away that uneasy proposition before it even touches your ears. He’s a stranger. There’s a reason the word rhymes with ‘danger.’ You don’t even know the guy’s name.

“What’s your name?” you ask him. You might as well know.

He looks rather pleased by the question. “My name is Ivan Braginsky. What is yours?”

“…(first name/last name)…”

“Very pretty. It suits you.”

You continue your unpleasant stroll in silence.

 

 

When the pair of you reaches the front façade of the Notre Dame Cathedral, the crowds are roiling. All sorts of people flock here. Battle-ready soccer moms. Camera-wielding journalists. Swarms upon swarms of family-minded Asians. Clumsy American tourists tripping over nasally French vowels in hopes of impressing the locals. And of course, the locals themselves, ears torn and sore from all the hubbub.

Regardless of its visitors, Notre Dame is still beautiful. Breath-catchingly so. Seriously. You can physically feel the breath catch in your throat as you sip at the splendor. It is impressive in both size and intricacy, looming over the surrounding buildings, all of them centuries younger, like a stern grandfather. The gargoyles that adorn its crown help enhance this image, as does the bitter grey sky. It appears rain is inevitable.

“Would you like to go inside?” Ivan asks you.

“Don’t we need special tickets or something?”

“No. Francis once showed me a different way in. A secret way.”

“Who’s Francis?”

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs your wrist like a chain link and drags you to a different side of the fear-inspiring structure. He ushers you in through a door and closes it carefully behind him. Inside, it is dark.

“This way to the towers,” he says.

A nick of dread begins to swell in your chest. It really is dark in here, and you can see no one else nearby.

He takes your hand, and you begin climbing stairs. Up and up and up you go, until it seems you should be halfway to forever, and all the while you’re dreading the sort of ending this story could have.

But when you reach the top, the unexpected greets you.

Which is to say, it is decidedly harmless and safe.

A tower of bells.

“ _This_ is where you were taking me?!” you breathe out, incredulous.

Ivan looks befuddled. “Da. Where did you think I was taking you?”

You disregard the question. “This place is amazing! It’s just like it is in _The Hunchback of Notre Dame._ ”

“That is an American children’s movie, yes?” I van asks. He scoffs. “I doubt it gave you an accurate depiction.”

“Have you even seen it?”

“No. But I doubt I would want to.”

You plop your sketchbook in a shoved-aside corner and whirl around, neck craning to take in the sight of all the bells overhead. It seems this cathedral has every size of singer: alto, soprano, tenor, bass…a whole choir. You wonder what it must be like to listen to their music from directly below. “Trust me. You want to.”

Ivan only shakes his head.

“There will not be another tourist group coming up here for fifteen minutes, so until then, enjoy yourself,” he says, sitting down against a stonework wall.

In your excitement, you had forgotten about the sensation of impending doom scratching the back of your skull, but his words remind you. Your smile drops and you shiver involuntarily. Fifteen minutes…what could happen in fifteen minutes? But then your reasoning brain chimes in: if he wanted to try something, wouldn’t he have tried it by now?

You decide to chance on the stupid choice.

You walk over to him and plunk yourself down.

“So, Ivan Braginsky, what do you do?”

His eyes, which had been closed, snap open. “What do you mean?”

“Like, what’s your job?”

He smiles. “Hm…that is a rather good question, actually…I suppose you could say I am in the service industry…”

Your jaw hits the masonry. “You’re not a pimp, are you?”

Ivan laughs. “No, of course not. Why must you jump to such wild conclusions, little one? My job is…hard to explain. In a way, I work for the government- “

“Which government? You never said where you’re from.”

“Oh. I am Russian.”

“Whoo, that means I got it right.”

“What did you get right?”

You clutch your sketchbook to your chest self-consciously. “Well, I sort of make it a game with myself to guess where people are from based on how they look. When I first saw you in Shakespeare & Co, I thought you looked Eastern European, so… I got it right.”

“Yes, I suppose you did. But could you distinguish between a Russian and a Ukrainian?”

“Probably not. I’m not _that_ good.”

“Hm.”

After a pause, he asks, “So, what are you going to do about your predicament?”

“My predicament?”

“Your friend abandoned you in the middle of Paris. What are you going to do about it?”

“Huh. I almost forgot about that… yeah, come to think of it, what _am_ I going to do?” You knead your temples with weary fingers. “How will I get home?”

“Where is home?”

“Oh. I live in Wisconsin.”

“That is in America, da?”

“Yeah, it’s a state. The crazy state of zealous beer-drinking and general fatness.”

“Oh, that state.”

Another pause finds its way in. It curls at your feet.

“I could… take you home.”

Your eyes blanch. “ _No._ You’re a stranger. It’s bad to take rides from strangers.”

He smiles that same shucking smile of his, the one with equal parts cuteness and madness. “You Americans are always so paranoid. Not all strangers are bad.”

“Besides, why the heck would you do that? Plane tickets are expensive. There’s a reason I put up with a rich little brat to get over here.”

“Maybe I do not need a plane ticket.”

“How else would you get me back over the pond?”

“There are other ways,” Ivan says, waving his hand vaguely. He stands up. “But right now, we must hurry. The next tourist group is due to arrive.”

He offers his hand to help you up, but you only stare bullets at it as you make your own way to vertical. He lets it drop without a mention, but then you smile.

“If there’s one thing you need to understand about me, it’s that I don’t accept help very often. So, don’t take it personally, big guy.”

 

 

You hardly know why, but it seems as the day progresses, you become less and less wary of this strange man. He walks you all around Paris, showing you tiny tucked-away treasures you never would have uncovered on your own. You browse through a quaint curio shop called Deyrolle, full of whimsical taxidermy and jeweled butterflies. You peruse a regal art store, Sennelier, boasting to offer ‘chemically precise’ pigments in all mediums. Your mouth waters at the tantalization. And you stop briefly at a quiet florist known as Abacard, specializing in posies, but offering many other flowers as well. Ivan selects an artful bouquet of sunflowers.

As you continue down the street, he hands the arrangement to you.

“What’s this for?” you ask.

“For you,” Ivan replies, with a pinch of: ‘Uhm, duh. Who else?’

“Okay. No I’m _really_ starting to get the heebie-jeebies. Maybe a bit of the jeepers-creepers too. Why are you giving me flowers?”

“Because I can.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes it is. Now, where would you like to eat?”

You decide not to make an orangutan issue out of it. If someone gives you flowers, you take the shucking flowers. Even if they are a tad on the stalker side. And something is beginning to tell you that this guy is something else.

Something else entirely.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this little fic a while back, maybe even a year ago. Shakespeare & Co. is an actual bookstore in Paris, and I highly recommend going to visit if you ever get the chance. It has a lot of history behind it. Big shots like F. Scott Fitzgerald (one of my all time favorite authors), Ernest Hemmingway, and later Allen Ginsberg hung out there. A great place to find inspiration! Also, what can I say. I'm a sucker for all things Paris.


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